Until the Rain Stops
by Typing Rebellion
Summary: The rain starts pouring, and the story goes on. (Rimahiko. )


This is the shittiest, most confusing, longest fanfic you'll ever read. I AM SO SORRY? DON'T EVEN READ THIS?

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**Until the Rain Stops**

**by Elias the Bucket **

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_"**LAUGH** at the night, _

_at the day, at the moon_

_laugh at the twisted _

_streets of the island _

_laugh at this clumsy _

_boy who loves you,_

_but when I open _

_my eyes __and close them_

_when my steps go,_

_when my steps return, _

_deny me bread, air_

_light, spring_

_but never your laughter _

_for I would die."_

_- Tu Risa, Your Laughter, by Pablo Neruda _

* * *

**Autumn, 1966**

7 PM

Numerous glasses softly collided as an old man carefully organized a row of neatly placed wine bottles, all lined up peacefully, its colors and tones blending eerily with its setting's grotesque color palette. Dust spread, surrounding rows and rows of shelves, the brown mahogany consuming every bit of its grey hue.

A young man – or so it seemed – occupied a leather chair alone, its cloth already tattered as days would pass. The slouched figure settled, his finger circling the rim of his wineglass absentmindedly. Oblivious distance was displayed in his knowing gaze as he attempted to sip, with all his might, the alcohol he couldn't bear to finish. Long, smooth hair that reached until his waist bunched up into a low ponytail, its lose stands accompanying – and perfectly matching – his timidly depressed aura.

"You should really get going."

The bartender, who proceeded to wipe few glasses with soft, damp cloth, was a veteran of the Second World War. A 65-year-old retired army general, it was evident in his blank eyes the remnants of casualties and losses the war had haunted him with. Previously armed with a vintage, working machine gun, it was during these days he used weapons no more. The remaining half of his life, he spent away from the army, equipped with a matching apron, shot glasses, and a vinyl recorder. Thus, the retired general spent the time of his life with nothing to accompany him, his loved ones and enemies perishing in the war.

The bartender had a huge, strong body physique, with bits of fat here and there after a phase of smoking and drinking. He had a tattoo of a red-crowned crane embedded on his arm and a huge scar on his left leg, which he conceals with warm clothes even during summer. White hairs were dominant along his hairline, and it was quite obvious he hasn't shaved in days. He had big eyes for a Japanese man, eyelids wide open in search of enemies (and of course, customers). His lips were always smiling, and yet something about it seemed fake and forced.

All alone, here he was, surrounded by insensitive costumers and his beloved alcohol. He didn't mind. He gave his everything for a country that rose with a red-and-white banner, an iron fist, and choruses of 'Banzai!' – and sooner, he fell with it.

Not that he cared at all, really.

"It's necessary that you leave, kid," he chided. "I'll be closing down soon."

Silence.

The bartender cleared his throat. "Would it be necessary that I drag you out?"

"I.. I'm sorry – It's just that – I – "

Those were probably the first words he had heard from this unusual customer. His voice slurred like flowing water from a glass pitcher; without even moving, the bartender could tell the man moved at ease with feminine grace. Seeing him talk for the first time, the masculine voice would be quite a surprise.

He seemed familiar, however.

"Alright, alright. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Mm."

The bartender nodded inquisitively as he took a seat on a wooden chair in front of the young man, the wooden counter in between them. He attempted to look into the boy's eyes – maybe once or twice he had attempted to do so – but the young man's eyes seemed so clouded, as if he was far away.

"What's your name?"

"Fujisaki. Fujisaki Nagihiko."

"Sit up straight, boy."

Nagihiko retreated from his slouch, straightening his back aesthetically. His ocher eyes suddenly shifted from dejection to determination, as his vision felt sharper, clearer – and yet, the remnants of misery still prevailed in those empty pupils; lifeless, soulless.

The bartender tried not to get distracted.

"You're that famous dancer, am I correct?"

The young man smirked, nodding.

"Ah. I reckon you were dead."

Nagihiko let out a small chuckle, tilting his glass as the bartender filled it up with wine, as if on cue. The cheer immediately faded as he brought forth the glass upon his lips, taking a miniscule sip.

"That was a cover-up. I'm not dead."

"I knew that."

The bartender grinned.

Rain started to pour. Icy raindrops landed on the bar window, dripping down slowly, the chilly temperature emanating throughout the city. The roads started to empty, with the playing children crawling back into their houses, the rainfall immediately strengthening. Nagihiko eyed his acquaintance curiously, and the old man nodded. _Yes_, his eyes glistened, as if saying, _you can stay until the rain stops._

They both remained silent.

"I.. I attended your show once."

"Oh?"

The old man quietly chortled as he skillfully filled his own glass of wine.

"Mm. To be honest, my son had a crush on you back then."

Nagihiko couldn't help but smile. "Do continue."

His eyes averted towards the wise glance of the bartender, the glimmer in the old man's eyes obviously in reminiscent. In time, Nagihiko had kept away his kimonos, jewelry, and fans, but there was still this simple joy once an admirer would make him remember how happy he was in the glory days. But alas, he knew – it had to end.

Bright neon lights started to shine brightly into the bar windows, of which was owned by the hair salon across the street. The luminescence reflected off the bartender's face, and for a strange reason, this relaxed Nagihiko even more.

"I told my son that you were a man. It surprised him."

"That's delightful."

"Delightful?" The old man guffawed. "He thought you were a woman."

"Precisely."

The bartender frowned in anticipation for an answer.

To Nagihiko, it was better rendered a woman when he desired to be one – as a Japanese dancer, it was all about femininity and grace. He knew it well and accepted it as family tradition and as part of his life. Hearing of an innocent young child mistaking him for something he wanted to be – in all fairness, it flattered him.

It still hurt, though.

Nagihiko took a deep breath as his back formed an arc, slouching.

"The war ruined you," the bartender chimed in. "You were at the peak of your career."

Accurate that statement may be, it only affected a portion of what he felt. The war took away the only things he had left – his career, his fame, his glory. Those were the things he and his mother worked hard for, things he abruptly cherished – but even before that, however, he was already crushed.

Empty.

Nagihiko gently perched his wineglass on the table, another sigh escaping from his lips.

"No, no. It didn't ruin me," His eyes sunk. "Love did."

_Love? _

The bartender never knew. Almost always did he think that those extravagant dancers lived a life of paradise – of admirers, of flashing lights, and of paparazzi. They got everything they wanted, all because they knew how to wave some expensive fan.

He remembered, being a general sent to America, seeing that young woman wave her fan around as American men hooted and cheered. They were disrespectful and hardly disciplined, and yet the young woman – who he realized was a man right after the performance – kept her grace under pressure. She was immaculate and beautiful under the stage lights as she tilted her parasol to the side, her deep-set eyes meeting that of the bartender's and his son. The old man knew, back then, that those weren't the eyes of finesse, or elegance. They were blank.

Empty.

The rain poured harder as the neon lights started to blink.

"I was grateful, though." Nagihiko continued, a tear dripping from his left cheek. He started to laugh – womanly as he used to be, he never got used to crying. It was something he found rather foolish.

"Grateful?"

The bartender chose to continue.

"The destruction _she's_ caused; it helped me survive the war."

Nagihiko let out a chuckle, although he was already crying. It was evident, however, how he tried his best not to. The pain wouldn't disappear even as Nagihiko continued to vigorously wipe his tears away with his wrist. He sobbed in disdain and embarrassment, as the bartender watched the boy in awe.

"I.. I.."

The old man watched Nagihiko cough up tears as Nagihiko covered his mouth to ease the affliction. It was evident that he never cried, as tears seemed like such a foreign object rolling down his face. Dainty as he was earlier, bitter weeping did not suit him at all. He seemed uncouth, without his usual swanlike grace – to the bartender, it seemed, he was more of a little boy crying rather than a Japanese dancer in tears.

Oh, how he reminded the old man of his lost son.

"You know," the bartender interrupted casually, smiling. "After your performance, there was a stampede caused by those raunchy Westerners."

"Yes?"

"I lost my child in that stampede. I – I couldn't find him at all. He was so in love with you that he was paralyzed in his seat." He chuckled.

Nagihiko looked up at the bartender as he gulped the rest of his alcohol in contemplation, the old man's lips quiver in regret.

"I could still hear his little voice, crying, searching, you know? 'Papa, Papa!' he called out to me, and yet I couldn't find my little angel. I searched and searched, but the Americans kept on pushing me, dragging me away from him. Up until now, I could hear his tiny screams in my head. Kicking. Shouting. Wondering where I was, then giving up. Shattered. Betrayed."

The old man cleared his throat as he filled his own wineglass to the brim.

"What happened?"

"I never saw him again."

An awkward, sympathetic silence followed as Nagihiko looked at the bartender with concern. He could imagine it all happening, and of course, he was there. However, after the performance, the Japanese dancer witnessed the event in a different way. Nagihiko's voice lowered an octave as he started to narrate.

**1941**

_The stampede was caused when the Americans demanded an encore, to which Nagihiko graciously agreed, but when he had heard their desperate cries of desire –_

_"We want Nadesheeko!"_

_"Give her to us!"_

_"Show us some skin, babe!"_

_Nagihiko's eyes widened in shock as his manager, Sanjo Kairi, stood beside him and continuously reassured him of his safety and comfort (to no avail). He latched himself onto his seat tightly and refused to speak as his manager sighed in retrospect._

_"You should get used to your adoring fans, Fujisaki," Kairi monotonously remarked as he glanced at his watch. "I'll go make you a sandwich, wait here."_

_His confidante left as Nagihiko could hear the screams of his stage name getting louder as he felt it nearing. Seconds later, his door was repetitively and boisterously banged by the white men._

_"S-Sanjou-kun." He muttered in fear of the door, the door, the door -_

_The door suddenly opened and immediately shut closed, and the Fujisaki, still clad in the kimono he had earlier used, heard heavy footsteps slowly nearing him. The dancer perked up as his hands absentmindedly searched a weapon out of instinct, getting ahold of his hairbrush, and throwing it behind him as an attempt of self-defense._

_"Nadesheeko, you're so pretty.."_

_Nagihiko could hear an American accent seductively whisper in his ear, and he could see the filthy, overweight American man from the mirror in front of him. Out of nowhere, the man grabbed his waist as he nuzzled Nagihiko's neck and slightly pulled down his kimono. Rough, abrupt kisses planted themselves on the dancer's shoulder as he tried his best to struggle, but his efforts were overshadowed by the intruder's strength._

_"S-Sanjou-kun!" Nagihiko's voice - his real, masculine voice - loudly called out the name of his manager, who was nowhere to be found. He repeated his name over and over again, to no success._

_It was traumatic. Scarring. For the first time, Nagihiko despised the attention and prayed to the gods for it to disappear. He hated his fame, he hated his glory - oh, what he'll do just to be ignored by the masses. His career would sooner be thrown away because a dirty foreigner found out he was a man after attempting to rape him, and it felt like a huge slap in the face as he shivered, watching the man on top of him blankly like a coward. All he wanted right now was to go home, to go back to Japan, to Seiyo, to Rima-san.._

_But alas, the American unfastened Nagihiko's kimono as his filthy hands felt their way down Nagihiko's thighs, vigorously searching in between, and yet.._

_"What the fu - "_

_"Fujisaki!"_

_Kairi burst through the kitchen door and dropped the plate he was holding as he saw one of his best friends sprawled on the floor, struggling under a wretched foreigner. Instantly Kairi ran towards the man and punched him near the kidney, to which the man howled in pain as he rolled away, clutching his abdomen. Nagihiko was frozen in shock as his manager instantly stooped down and fixed his fallen comrade's kimono before helping him up._

_"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" The American cried as he throbbed in torment, tortured by the stupid fist that hit him hard. He sloppily stood up, almost slipping, screaming to himself about how he just felt up a man. "Nadesheeko.. my darling.. Nadesheeko.. is a guy.."_

_"Should we kill him?" Kairi asked softly, eyeing the sword hung up on the wall with sadistic desire. "He'll tell everyone, and you'll be ruined."  
_

_Nagihiko cleared his throat and sat up instantly, shaking his head. "I'd rather throw my whole past away than ruin this man's future." _

**Autumn, 1966**

9 PM

Nagihiko started to snicker at the silly tale as the bartender gazed at him in surprise, his mouth agape. He didn't expect such a cheerful retort from the tragic story, but the old man figured it was none of his business. From the young man's smile, he could see much sadness, the same sadness he'd felt the day he lost his wife, and lost his son.

"It was a bittersweet feeling, seeing those American and Japanese newspapers with the headlines of me being a man. Does my androgyny really matter?" Nagihiko hiccuped as he impatiently filled his own glass with wine. "I felt happy because I got to quit a job I really detested, but I was unhappy because.. father.. career.. life.. Haha."

"Well, I was used to it."

The bartender's eyes shot up as he waited for Nagihiko to continue.

"You know, being hurt."

Nagihiko attempted to smile, yet a look of anguish was still present on his face. He pursed his lips, shifting his eyes from the bartender to the window.

"Heartbreak. It's contagious."

"Why is that?" The bartender asked curiously.

"Well," Nagihiko shrugged. "What's the point of survival if nobody's waiting for your return? I'll tell you something."

The old man knew that this was a whole new story, and that his customer wasn't really mulling over his words just as he used to. Perhaps it was something about his broken family, or him, being the celebrity he used to be, with his love affairs strewn all over the place like haywire. The kid was mental, the old man knew, but because Nagihiko reminded him of his lost son - he knew - he had to listen.

"I only loved one girl, you know," he reminisced as he filled the glass with wine again. "She was beautiful. I mean, I didn't love her because she was beautiful. She was beautiful because I love her. I don't know."

"Go on," the bartender mused.

"I mean, everyone of us - each and everyone of us - would always have that one person in our lives we'd live for, right?" Nagihiko smiled deliberately, and this time, there was the gleam in his eyes he'd long lost. "I loved her too much. She was perfect in my eyes. Every aspect of her I desired, but I knew I couldn't. I didn't want her the way that American man wanted me, no, I just wanted her to, you know, love me back."

"You wanted her the way my son wanted you."

Nagihiko chuckled at the remark.

"Yes, perhaps, perhaps. But I didn't stop moving when I first saw her, no - I stopped moving when I realized, _oh, goodness, I'm in love with this girl_. That was the time I fell into paralysis: when I realized I was willing to give up every inch of me just for her. It's amazing."

He continued.

"I met her in class - she was a new student, and I was there in the school all my life. She didn't know I was a boy, of course - she never did. I'm pretty sure of it. Anyway, I hated her the moment I first saw her. The way her eyes just bulged, her ugly blonde hair, her imperfect teeth, and the numerous bruises she had on her legs... Tell me, as a guy myself, would I even give her a second glance? She was mean, too. Vicious, fiendish, devilish.. Every negative adjective in the dictionary. I hated her to the point of ignoring her, even if I was assigned to tour her around the school. I didn't. We hated each other too much, until.."

"Mm?"

"For some forgotten reason, there was that beautiful day I was walking with her. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the cherry blossoms were blossoming - the cherry blossoms just made everything better, really. I was walking in a fast pace, just like I always did, so she'd catch up. Her legs were too short and she'd have to run to keep up, so it was normally a very amusing, funny sight. Until I started to run and she held onto my arms, chasing me, her laugh trailing across the wind as if we'd never hated on each other. As if we were really friends. It was the first time I heard of her real laugh. She looked at me with affection as I just continued running, listening to the soft music of her chuckle, and that was the time I got paralyzed - I suddenly stopped, unmoving, just holding her tight in my arms. That was the time I realized I'd rather take everything away from me: my life, my career, my dreams.. just not her laughter. Never her laughter."

"That was the problem though - I had everything. I was given everything. I was given my life, my career, my dreams.. but her laughter? That one memory of her on that clear spring day? That was what was taken away from me, and it hurt the most because it was I who gave it up."

He sighed, pausing to fill his glass once again - for god knows how many times - and finishing the drink in one gulp. The bartender waited for the story's continuation, but alas, an awkward silence continuously ensued.

"What happened to this girl? What's her name?"

"She's famous. You know her. It's awkward if I told you her name."

"Ah," the bartender nodded. "What happened then? Did you get married, have ki - "

"No. I left her."

Nagihiko very well remembered that one last time he'd seen her before saying goodbye. He was pretty sure he'd tell her the truth, that he wasn't the Nadeshiko Fujisaki that she knew - the proud, graceful girl everyone loved - but instead, he was the stupid boy who fell head over heels in love with her. His words would often put themselves into a halt as he tried to piece his ideas together, but alas, he remained paralyzed while looking into her eyes of anticipation.

God, he missed those eyes.

_"Goodbye, Rima," _he remembered telling her that one clear spring day. _"I promise I'll come back for you." _

_"Promise, Nadeshiko?" _

_"Promise," _he managed to cough out.

She looked at him, hopeful that her best friend would someday - someday! - he would come back. He, too, waited for that "someday", that someday when he really would come back and fulfill his promise, and hopefully, propose to her.

That someday never came.

"Is she alive?" The bartender asked, disturbing Nagihiko from his abrupt daydream. "Did she survive the war?"

The young man shrugged. "All I know was that she married a rich politician after graduation. She never watched any one of my shows, and believe me, I made sure."

"I see," the man remarked.

Silence.

"Well, the rain's already lessened into a drizzle. Perhaps you could go home in a little while."

"_Mm._"

The miniscule answer Nagihiko supplied him with sent chills down the bartender's spine; he knew Nagihiko wasn't right in the mind, and he pitied the guy. He remembered news of his apparent suicide in Europe, which was just a mere hoax. The guy was more than alive - just crazy. The truth was, Nagihiko spent most of his life hidden away, sheltered in mental therapy right after the stampede incident, his gender controversy, and everything else that followed... All of Japan knew this.

_Poor guy, _the bartender thought.

An awkward silence hung in the air as the neon bright lights of the salon from across them disappeared. The street lamps turned on, one by one, signifying that it was almost late night curfew. Nagihiko finished the rest of his wine in a second, and soon, it was fifteen minutes until ten.

"You should leave, son."

Nagihiko rose and fixed on his coat, thanking the bartender for his time and listening ear, and for all the wine.

"No problem, kiddo. You get a discount."

"I hope you find your son, sir. Never lose your hope."

"You too. I hope you find her again. Get married. Have kids. It's never impossible."

"But I can't."

"Hm?"

"I- I- I miss her. I miss her too much," he murmured, taking a deep breath. "I don't know if I still love her, you know? If I get paralyzed when I'll hear her laugh again. If I still loved her as much as I did before. I loved her too much, and it was tragic - it was tragic because nothing happened. Nothing happened at all. Hah, and you know what hurts the most? The fact that it hurt the most, among everything else that happened. Call me crazy, but I didn't care too much seeing my career go to waste, my dreams just disappear, my mother dying, my body abused by a father who never loved me, or the feeling an unfamiliar man touching me inappropriately. All I thought about was her, and then I was happy. I thought about her until the pain went away, until I forgot about all the trouble I've endured, until the rain stopped.. But no. It was all too bittersweet, because the moment I thought about her, the moment I remembered.. that it was nothing.. that she didn't love me back.. that there was a possibility that I - I never even loved her in the first place - that I was only in love with the memory of her - the memory that I would carry until the day I die - that memory - that memory of her laughter - her _laughter _- that music - her laughter - her.. her.. Oh, goodness, I'm rambling right now, I'm sorry, I'm sorry sir, I'll leave once it stops raining, because everything, everything, everything happens until the rain stops, I - "

The rain stopped.

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Author's notes:

I AM SO SORRY. IT'S 5 AM SDFGHYWETSFDN KSNDF

Wow that was so crazy what the hell did I just write?

To be honest, this was just vomit of the brainchild I wrote a year ago. Yes, I was going to post this alongside that other story I posted, the one with.. um.. the telephone thing. Yeah. Anywho, this was just edited from what I wrote and I really just seriously continued it so I'm sorry if there's a sudden change of writing in between all that.

Basically:

1. Nagihiko goes to high school as Nadeshiko. Falls in love with new student Rima.

2. Nagi leaves Rima for career. Ew.

3. Nagi becomes super famous and does tours in America. America loves her. American takes advantage of her.

4. Everything falls apart. Nagi goes mental. Not too unbelievably mental. Just mental.

5. He goes to a bar and tells his deepest secrets to a man he never met.

6. ?

Review if you want Rima's side of the story. This is supposed to be a threeshot, but I won't waste my effort if people don't want to read. Hihi.

The bartender's important too. I like him. I ship him with Nagihiko.

JK.

Anyway, review if you want another chapter of this bs!

Love,

Elias

P.S. I need friends omg


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